


Run And Go

by bunjamin



Category: Trench - Twenty One Pilots (Album), Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, DEMA (Twenty One Pilots), Depressed Tyler Joseph, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone Is Gay, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Josh Dun, Rebellion, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-07 15:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17963072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunjamin/pseuds/bunjamin
Summary: Citizen 24-81-77-09. Bourbaki's most loyal.His entire existence has so far been dedicated to the Bishops and only the Bishops. They make his life regular, they make it pass easy, until death shows him mercy. But when he saves the life of the new leader of the rebellion, lets himself feel something for the first time, he automatically crashes down all the carefully built walls that guard his safe and perfect world.Yet, this "Josh" promises that this is what life truly is. And he wants to believe him.





	1. who cares if you exist

Citizen 24-81-77-09 has never thought of himself as lonely. After all, there are no friends or families in Dema. He is merely another speck of life, like a light slowly extinguishing, amongst the million others, carrying no importance whatsoever. He only serves the Bishops, every breath he takes is for them. His dedication to them is rewarded, as a farmer would acknowledge one of his many animals, for what they produce, not for what they are. Yet he had never known anything more wonderful than that.

 

Rebels frighten him, as a farm animal fears dogs gone rabid. Fears that one day they will drag him into the darkness, reap him of his clean, perfect white uniform, and force him to take a stand. To pick a side, to think about it.

 

As any well-behaved citizen will tell you, it's not good to think about it.

 

His existence is a purposeful one, fulfilling each task, each day. Letting them all tumble like pebbles down a stream. He waits for the rapids that he knows will come, not in fear of their crushing force, but with a sick sort of curiosity. What will happen then? He wants to know. Wants to let their strength crush his bones, carry the fragments and let his entrails taint the water. The only mark he will ever leave in this city is his gravestone, after all.

 

The graveyard is always there when he wakes up, stretching as far as he can see from his room window, toward the sunset. West. On rare occasions, the Bishops give him and a select few the task to go there, and gather whatever flowers might have been left on the graves. Useless clutter, they were called.

 

He doesn't understand flowers, but they disturb the world that Bishops had made. They must be evil. Their beauty is only danger and lies, and they are so beautiful.

 

Today is no different from all the others - he wakes up, works, and eats just as the schedule asks him to, just as he's been doing for as long as he remembers. He avoids the others, ghosts and husks, not unlike him, because something in their lifelessness scares him. Dema has no mirrors - he sees himself in them, but he knows nothing of the resemblance. Perhaps if he knew the truth, he would be afraid of himself.

 

More than he already is.

 

Nobody stares back, just as he makes sure to never stare at anybody for too long. It is an unspoken agreement that the citizens of Dema are not to care for eachother. There is no friendship, no love or hatred, no interest or pity. It's safe - for none of them are ready to feel, they were not raised to feel, or to understand the feelings of others.

 

The canteen shifts like one living being, packed with citizens, all in the same, white uniforms, featureless and perfect, with engulfing sleeves to keep them warm when the heat is short. And the heat is mostly always short. Everybody walks to get whatever indistinguishable paste they consume each day, eat quietly, and return to their daily schedule. He despises the crowded room and the stuffy air more than anything he had ever experienced. But something can't be right-

 

Sounds.

 

Unusual sounds.

 

A voice. How long has it been since he's heard the voice of somebody other than a Bishop?

 

From his seat at the edge of one of the tables, he quivers in alarm. Nothing unusual is ever welcome in Dema. It scares him instantly, so much so that he wants to crawl under the table, such an irrational thought. One that the Bishops would surely frown upon. He shouldn’t care, he does his best not to care as the agitation continues.

 

_“I WON'T GO QUIETLY.”_

 

The small hairs on his arms raise as the voice chants. Nobody dares speak, or even look up from their plates. His neck aches with the desire to arch even the slightest, to catch a half-glimpse of the speaker. What a stupid thing, to desire.

 

_“DEMA DOESN'T CONTROL ME.”_

 

There are thunderous footsteps approaching, dashing past the tables, closer and closer to himself. He bites the inside of his cheek until he can taste blood, a stark contrast from the tasteless food. He struggles to continue eating, his hands shaking as they grip the utensils.

 

_“REMEMBER. EAST IS UP.”_

 

The speaker is almost about to run past his table - he can see the torn pants of his uniform now, with the corner of his eye, dirt-spattered, the exposed part of his legs grazed. In a moment, lacking ration, perhaps, he pushes himself up from the table, cutting him off. His entire body is shaking, a mixture of fury, determination, and immediate regret. What an idiot, to dare interrupt, and make such a ruckus, to run around in a tarnished uniform and yell, of all things.

 

The other is frozen in place, with narrow, dark eyes and short curls, growing out more than the designated hair-length that the Bishops allow. A quick glance at the tag on his shirt, right above the heart, shows it's half-ripped out - he can only make out a three, a five, maybe two ones?

 

It is obvious that he was not expecting to be stopped like this. He stays frozen in place, and the stranger’s stare of disbelief makes him uncomfortable with each fraction of a second. With altogether too much effort, he finally summons up the courage to speak.

 

“You...shouldn't say these things... You'll make the Bishops mad.”

 

There is too long of a pause. He avoids looking at the other's face habitually - misses the way it lights up for a moment, the runaway smile that briefly touches his gaping mouth.

 

“I don't care. I'm not mindless, like all of you.” the reply comes, bitter-sweet. There is no accusation in it, only pity. Pity for who?

 

“We have minds. We think, and, unlike you, we're not stupid.”

 

He can't tell, but his voice is far from the commanding, serious tone he wishes he had. It’s skittish, nervous and high-pitched, at times barely audible, but the other does not mock him, simply cares enough to listen closely.

 

“Fine, then. I’m not soulless.” another reply comes.

 

He can't argue with that.

 

“If you're standing up like this, maybe you're not soulless either.” he continues, and the remark makes him draw back slightly. “Maybe you still have something left in there.” the other says, touching his chest, near to his heart, for a brief second, enough to make him squirm away even more, warily. “Do you have a name?”

 

Options are weighed. Surely, the guards would come any second to tackle the other, drag him away to who knows where? Why was he even wasting time here, to talk to him, when he could run, maybe escape? “Two, four, eight-” he begins, softly.

 

“That's not a real name.”

 

“What is a real name, then?” he asks, genuinely. He doesn't know.

 

The other seems to be about to say something, but he is shoved to the ground, kicked out of breath, grappled and raised back up by the guards that do not even acknowledge his presence. It is better like this. But something still does not feel right.

 

_“MY NAME IS JOSH.”_

 

The guards had dragged him halfway across the large hall when he hears his voice again.

 

_“FIND YOUR OWN NAME.”_

 

Almost through the large doors.

 

 _“THEN FIND ME.”_ his last, hopeful words, breathy, but resounding.

 

The doors shut with a merciless thud.

 

Nobody in the entire canteen had raised their gaze from their plates for the entire exchange - it had almost felt intimate. He shudders - intimacy was surely not allowed in Dema. And what was all that about finding his name?

 

Citizen 24-81-77-09 has no time to try and understand what the other had meant - his schedule is full today, tomorrow, every other day following. As it should always be.

 

You can't hope to become Bourbaki's most trusted without putting in the effort.

 

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

 

Something hovers on his lips as he paces the large, empty hallways, every one of his small steps augmented by the triumphant echo. It plays with his head, has him checking behind his back for followers. But he is always met with the same half-darkness he had come from, like a mocking reminder of his own cowardice.

 

And what is this ghost, that dances in his throat, toys with his vocal chords so carelessly? What is it trying to get him to say, and where had it been for so long? Had it come out to play at the sigh of the stranger, smitten by his idiocy?

 

It wants him to say something. He stops in the hallway, looks back and forth to make sure there is nobody nearby. Deep breaths, one, two, three. With a level head, he speaks clearly, confidently, no trace of his skittish demeanor.

 

_“Josh. Josh, josh, josh, josh.”_

 

He looks around.

 

He feels stupid.

 

He should not be keeping Bourbaki waiting.


	2. tell me why i'm okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reeducation. He is not dead, then. But he might as well be, or at least, everything he stands for is dead, if does truly stand for something special.

All the doors look the same, in Dema - heavy, out of stone, with no decorations or knobs. Pushing them open is highly difficult, especially for someone as scrawny as himself. They open when the Bishops want them to open. It is how he had learned that some doors are better left closed, that the Bishops know best, and he should trust their judgement alone. Closed doors protect him from the unknown.

 

He's been staring at this door for the past thirty minutes. His scheduled meeting had been postponed, its place taken by more urgent matters, whose nature is not hard to guess, not after what had happened in the canteen. Yet, he's been staring at this slab of stone for quite some time, and he wonders whether there is any point to it anymore.

 

Maybe Bourbaki simply wants him to return to his daily duties, instead of waiting around, aimlessly. Another thirty minutes and he’s supposed to go outside, make sure all the clocks scattered around the city are all set at the same time - he checks his own. Compares the one of his left wrist to the one on his right wrist, to the one above the closed doors. Time is important in Dema. Nobody is ever late, or early.

 

He doesn't like clock-duty. It's stressful, and it makes him too painfully aware of how fast time flows by. Clock-duty is when he comes face to face with it, an unfair fight to the death.

 

But right now, time is flowing quite unbearably slow - not to mention the ghost in his throat is still trying to get him to say things, and some of them are growing increasingly scandalous. By his standards, at least. What if the Bishops hear him? Shameful would be the mildest way to put it.

 

“Josh.” he whispers, only for himself, the mischievous ghost, and for the red that creeps in his cheeks. Must be a bad fever. He should see whether he could squeeze in a visit to the Medical Ward of the city today.

 

A name, the other had said. Like ‘Josh’. Only the ruler of Dema has ever been called anything but a Bishop, or a citizen. ‘Nicolas Bourbaki’. So then, that was what a name must be. He wouldn't like to be named Nicolas. The name brings puzzling tremors to his heart, a hint of nausea as every sound churns in his mind. Sometimes, he finds himself longing for that nausea.

 

He admires Nicolas Bourbaki. He admires what he does, how he rules Dema. How safe and predictable everything is. How irrelevant he is in the grand scale of it all, like a safety net woven out of thorns.

 

He's been admiring Bourbaki's door for the past forty minutes when, suddenly, it decides to open.

 

Cowering out of the way immediately, he looks at the ground as the Bishops filter out of the room, three in total. So, the rebel had not been an important enough matter for all of them to gather. Which means that he was probably dead.

 

Not even a public execution, to mock his idiocy? Surprising. There had been instances of rebels made into a show - they did not entertain or frighten any one of them. By this point, citizens were numb to the display. Just another cog in the machine that had broken off, strayed away from the set path, and met its end.

 

Truly, nothing to mourn.

 

Then, why does the idea of this one dead make him so… He can't explain what this new pit in his stomach is, but it accompanies the rest, makes itself quite comfortable, and stays there as he continues to watch the floor. After the ghastly, echoing steps of the Bishops are far away, he dares raise his gaze.

 

The door is still open. He doesn't need to be told twice. Bourbaki gives no second chances, not out of sheer kindness. Without slouching or dragging his feet, arms straight at his sides, he walks inside, hears his only way out slowly slide closed behind him.

 

The unclear figure, always in the same, blood-red cloak, faces away from him, looking out through a small window. The tallest tower, housing the Bishops, looms over the rest. He wonders, for a fleeting second, whether you could see over the walls from up here. Luckily, his thoughts cannot be read.

 

Why would he be so foolish to want to know what lays beyond, out there, when everything is perfect in here?

 

Silence dwells in the room, heavy and suffocating. The mere presence of ruler of Dema has its own influence on a room, even on the citizens themselves. Whether it's his own mind playing tricks on him, or something else, inhuman, he feels more tired, passive. He couldn't run, even if he wanted to.

 

Why would he want to run?

 

“I understand today has been particularly interesting for you, yes?” the cloaked figure asks, without turning. After all these years, he does not sound like time has changed him - stoic, but with a hint of amusement whenever he talks to him. There are no jokes to be amused of, though.

 

Perhaps his favorite pawn simply entertains him with his meaningless presence that much.

 

He doesn't answer outright. He's barely spoken a word to the man, ever, because it always comes down to receiving orders, nothing more, nothing less. No idle chats about the inexistent weather, no comments on the tasteless canteen paste. Simply a master talking to his dog - it would be unnatural for the dog to even utter a single word, wouldn't it?

 

“That boy.” he continues, a hint of disgust as he utter those words. Everybody is a boy to Bourbaki - nobody knows how old he is, behind the veil. “He has been giving us trouble for quite a while. Honestly, I tried to be merciful, but he is unreachable.”

 

He doesn't understand why he's being told this - there's always a purpose.

 

“He needs to be reeducated, brought back to square one. It's only what's best for him.”

 

Reeducation. He is not dead, then. But he might as well be, or at least, everything he stands for is dead, if does truly stand for something special. For a moment, he tries to picture the other in a perfect uniform, his hair cut to the right length.

 

_They're picking flowers together, gathering them off the graves. Josh carries the basket, because there are so many flowers now in there that he alone can't hold it properly. Great, big yellow flowers, their petals wilting at the edges. Eye contact - his stare is so vacant, so disturbingly dead that everything falls apart, and the next second Josh is digging his own grave, dumping the flowers inside, and off he goes. The ground swallows Josh, and no matter how hard he tries to claws at the ground, to dig him out, sure that he might still be alive, he can't find him._

_His nails are broken and blackened. He digs and digs, and all he can find are yellow flowers, over, and over, and over again. ‘Josh, please come out, Josh, don't leave me alone in here. Josh, tell me what those flowers are called, tell me what everything is called. I don't know anything, I need you to teach me.’_

_The flowers turn red abruptly._

 

“Did you hear a word I've been saying?”

 

“Josh.” he exhales.

 

“What was that?”

 

He bites his tongue and shakes his head to make the images go away, stares at the ground to hide the wave of things happening across his face, the way his facial muscles twitch. Unable to tell whether the Bishop is looking at him, he is left only to wait.

 

“As I've told you already,” (the citizen winces) “, and you're making me tell you once more,” (he almost whimpers audibly, but does better to keep quiet) “, it's time for you and the others to visit the graveyard again. Get rid of whatever has been left there, as usual. You'll be doing that tomorrow, and then you'll be relieved of your duties for that day. A proper reward, for a special few.”

 

Bourbaki knows how much he hates being trapped in his own head. He sounds especially humoured as he calls it a reward.

 

But he could never be stupid enough to deny it - more silence follows, punctuated by the screeches of a vulture, rotating around the tower. Another replies, more viciously, and he can tell by the sounds they make that they are fighting. The Bishop dismisses him wordlessly as the large stone door begins to open behind him, perhaps much more interested to see the two birds rip each other apart in the sky.

 

When he walks outside, he finds the carcass of a vulture on the ground, blood still dripping from it, turning the ground red. Its stench is already filling the air, making him sick, and he takes a couple of shaky steps back, interlaced with irregular gasps for breath. The other vulture flies triumphantly up above. He hurries to check all the clocks in town, flinching everytime he hears another bird's screech.

 

They're all in synch, now. Nothing is out of place. Everything is perfect. All of the cogs are serving their purpose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm just as surprised as you are that this continues, it's been sitting in my drafts ever since i posted the first chapter lmao
> 
> like honestly there are so many better fics out there for your enjoyment but i'm glad you decided to read this one
> 
> days until mock exams and my literal death sentence : 5 :'((((

**Author's Note:**

> w o a h
> 
> this is something i worked on at 3 am while having a depressive episode so honestly, do what you want with it??? don't @ me if i never finish it exams are crushing my soul
> 
> joshua is a dum dum


End file.
